Sonnet VI

But for the soulless spirit I pour out,
there’s only now the faded blood stained page,
a work of fire that offers only doubt,
in motion on an empty unlit stage.
And when the music rises with the lights
and waiting players silent take their mark,
I pray a simple whisper in the night
that flesh and blood renew a dying spark.
And if there’s time before the curtain falls
I only ask that simplest mortal sin:
to know that at the end I’ve given all,
and my name be known for what I’ve given.
And if the end is where I find my peace,
for naught, I hope, has been this life’s release.

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